A personal recollection of an out-of-body experience. This a re-working of a previous prose piece which I have now removed from an earlier blog in case it looks familiar which is unlikely since I doubt anybody read it previously if you get my drift. The painting is called "Salvia".
Who is the ‘I’ that stands outside me looking in,
is it eponymous fate or is it some divine creature,
hidden for ages in the “I” of God
before it was released upon this unpitying morning,
delivering its inert messages.
Did the Prophets have these moments,
looking for recalcitrant words,
hesitating to define the ‘I’ and the ‘me’,
that coupled pair who never really sang in harmony
when time first set us in spinning motion like twin suns forever circling.
For the ‘me’ of old was forged from my parent’s crooked clay,
subject like them to time and degradation.
It was parental ignorance that turned me
on the twisted wheel of fate into the deform that you now behold,
the creature of rutted habit doomed forever
to follow the same useless path.
The Potter’s wheel is so deformed,
it cannot shape the growing child
to suit the ‘I’ who was presented with this wreckage,
to make the best or worst of it,
depending on what fate brought forth.
Eons will pass before ‘I’ am set free,
returned to the maker pure and unmarked by the body’s boundaries;
This is the origin of angels.
Now, as I grow old and time runs fast,
these boundaries are stretched almost to infinity,
blurred yet encompassing both the real and the imaginary world.
This is the true search for knowing,
stepping outside myself, hands dangling free,
unshapely, yet in craving pose,
waiting to grasp whatever reality might come my way.
I see others, also searching,
but mostly unknowingly, unwittingly
and restlessly seeking something real, tangible or unobtainably true.
The outer being only sees the somnambulant robot,
the ambivalent bloated hands clumsily reaching out,
then resting before moving on.
Yet ‘I’ am still the controller of my destiny,
driving the robot ‘me’, forever forward to new expectations.
The puttied hands swell until the centre of soul takes its rightful place
at that single point that is the beginning of everything.
‘I’ have no loss of reality here.
It is only the illusion of ‘me’.
‘I’ see clearly while the ‘me’ stumbles in dark places.